A Fine Year for Love. Catherine Lanigan
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serious I am,” he said, pulling a manila folder out of his briefcase. He opened it, revealing engineering drawings, machinery blueprints and a second land survey. “This is the equipment we’ll need by next year’s harvest in order to maximize our winemaking. I’ll keep the oak casks you have to age the wine, but we’ll need these stainless steel tanks in order to ferment it. We’ll build the barrel cellar along with the first fermentation barn. Since you’ve used your small barn for fermentation before, we’ll connect the plumbing from there to the new barn. There will be a radiant cooling system in the cellar roof. With this design you see here—” Gabe slid a set of photos across the table “—we’ll be one of the most modern wineries around. But we’ll keep the rustic charm, too. You’ll note the barn’s wood frame still has traditional hand-joinery. It’s done just as it was in the 1880s—probably when your first barn was built. Am I right?”
“Yes. It was built in 1882,” Mario replied. “I love that old barn.”
“We should capitalize on its charm.”
“What about a tasting room like Liz has?” Mario asked.
“Too soon,” Gabe said. “We’re a long way from that. I may pool our wines with the tasting rooms up in Saugatuck. Right now, I’ll be investing in fermentation barns, underground cellars and staff.”
“Staff?” Sophie and Mario said in unison.
“Absolutely. I’ll need help. I still have my father’s business to help run. Rafe has his mind on racehorses, and Mica would rather be designing some new piece of machinery than running the farm. That leaves the bulk of the Barzonni business squarely on my and my dad’s shoulders.”
“Angelo is a good businessman,” Mario said quietly as he studied the drawings and plans.
Gabe nodded. “He is. But he’s slowing down a bit these days.” He gave Mario a pointed and inquisitive look, but the older man quickly glanced away.
“Sophie told me Malbec wine is very popular with her friends,” Mario said. “It’s a big seller. Will you make Malbec?”
“I do want to give it a try. After all, vintners in the southwest of France and Argentina shouldn’t have a monopoly on that market.” Gabe gestured to the eastern side of the vineyard on the plot map. “These blackberries will enhance the wine. We’ll also add some black pepper flavor to give it an open texture.”
“Lovely,” Bianca said, folding her hands in her lap.
Gabe could read body language well enough to know that Bianca, for one, was itching to get a hold of his cashier’s check. He could only imagine the medical bills that had been piling up. Mario was on the mend after his surgery and was starting chemotherapy in a week. He would get well. They all had to believe that. Still, his treatments had put a strain on the family’s finances. Gabe was surprised by the sense of pride he took in being able to help them.
“Mario, this set of drawings is for you and your family. I want you to continue to look them over. I know we’ve talked about what I hope to create out here, but I need to be sure you’re happy with this deal. Do you still want to sell to me?”
Mario didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately and thrust out his hand. “Yes, we do, Gabriel. I’m very pleased you are going to make my little vineyard into a modern operation.”
As they shook hands, Gabe smiled so widely his cheeks hurt. This was more than a very exciting day in his life. And it felt very, very fine.
Gabe signed the papers, then handed them to Mario. “Congratulations to us.”
While Mario countersigned them, Gabe took out the cashier’s check and handed it to Bianca.
She smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you.”
As soon as the paperwork was done, Gabe would own roughly twelve acres of vineyard, most of which contained the same soil that was on Liz Crenshaw’s land.
This tiny parcel wasn’t even a speck of lint on the hundreds of acres, both planted and fallow, that Liz and Sam Crenshaw owned, but it was a start.
Since his freshman year at UC Davis, when he’d taken his first classes in viticulture and enology, he’d known that the tomatoes, soybeans and corn his family grew would never hold the allure for him that grape-growing and winemaking would. He had not only excelled in his classes, but also seemed to know as much or more than his professors. He remembered everything he read about wine as if the information had been burned into his brain. He was obsessed with California—the weather, the soil, the rock, the grapes, the other fruit and the estates. Gabe was drunk on the knowledge that flowed into him. Like the casks of wine he someday intended to make, Gabe knew he had to bide his time. His dream had to be held in reserve. Aged and not rushed. He’d returned to Indian Lake that summer, forever changed.
Still, Gabe had always felt the strong sense of duty to his parents that often befalls firstborn children. When Nate ran off to join the navy after high school, not telling any of his family where he’d gone, Angelo had exploded with rage. Gabe had assuaged his father’s anger by promising to be his right-hand man on the farm after he graduated from Purdue. Gabe had been putting his dreams and passions on hold for nearly a decade now. This opportunity to buy this small patch of land from the Mattuchi family had been the key to unlocking his hidden desires.
Once the papers were signed, his life was never going to be the same. It was time for him to break free from his father’s grasp, and this purchase was his first step.
He needed to learn as much as he could as fast as he could, because all his moves would be swift from this point forward. He intended never to look back.
Gabe’s ultimate dream was that one day his vineyard’s name, Château Gabriel, would grace a wine so rare and unique that it would be sold, revered, saved and even auctioned off around the world. He would be recognized among the world’s great sommeliers and collectors. He would have left his mark.
When the time was right and his plans called for it, he intended to travel to Argentina, South Africa and France to buy exceptional varieties of grapes with which to create masterpieces.
“Thank you, my friend,” Mario said as he handed the papers back to Gabe. He kept a copy for himself. “This makes me very happy.”
“I’m glad I could help. And thank you, Sophie, for suggesting I buy your father’s land.”
Bianca and Mario led Gabe to the door.
Sophie squeezed between them. “I’ll walk you to your car, Gabe,” she said sweetly.
Too sweetly, he thought. “Thanks.” He turned to Bella. “Good day to you, Mrs. Mattuchi,” he said with a polite nod.
Bella only grunted at him, then folded her arms over her chest and stared at the wall.
“Don’t mind her,” Sophie whispered. “It’s past her nap time.”
Gabe nodded. “I’ll be seeing you, Mario. I’ll give you a call on Monday before Mica and I come out to get started on the construction. He wants to look the place over.”
“Certainly,” Mario replied with a wide grin. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her close. “This is a wonderful day for us.”
“I’m glad,” Gabe said and ambled down the flower-bordered front walk toward his car.
Shielding his eyes, Gabe glanced over at Bella’s sunflower acre. “That’s really spectacular,” he said.
“Grandma sells to three florists in town, and a wholesaler from Chicago drives in every other day during her harvest.”
Gabe’s jaw dropped. “My kind of entrepreneur.”
“She can be a lot of fun,” Sophie assured him with a dazzling smile. “We can all be fun,” she said, leaning closer.
Gabe unlocked the car. “I’ll remember that,” he said.
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